A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/After the Battle (Victor Hugo)
AFTER THE BATTLE.
My sire, the hero with the smile so soft,
And a big trooper, his companion oft,
Whom he loved greatly for his courage high
And strength and stature, as the night drew nigh
Rode out together. The battle was done.
The dead strewed the field. Long sunk was the sun.
It seemed in the darkness a sound they heard,
A feeble moan, or some half-uttered word.
'Twas a Spaniard from the army in flight
Who had crawled to the road after the fight;
Shattered and livid, and more than half-dead,
Rattled his throat as quite faintly he said:—
'Water—water to drink, for pity's sake!
Oh—a drop of water my thirst to slake!'
And my father, moved at these words heart-wrung,
The gourd of rum at his saddle that hung
To the trooper handed, who sharp down sprung.
'Let him drink his fill,' cried my father;—and ran
The trooper to the sorely wounded man,
A sort of Moor, swarthy, bloody, and grim.
But soon as the trooper had bent o'er him
He seized a pistol, turned fiercely about,
And aimed at my father's head with a shout.
The ball passed so near, that its whistling sound
He heard, while his cap fell pierced to the ground,
And his steed reared back with terror aghast—
'Give him the drink,' cried my father, and past.